(original post-date: November 3, 2010)
In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that I am not writing this on Wednesday morning. Rather, it’s Tuesday night, and I’ve got the TV on in the other room. I’m listening with my left ear as I type with both hands. My mind is taking things in as I put things out. Call me versatile.
As with most years, I have been intrigued by the campaigns and rallies that have led up to this day of voting. In college, I majored in Poli-Sci, and electoral politics always held my interest most. Electoral politics reflect a combination of so many things: the personalities of elected officials and those who would like to hold office; the mood of the nation; the mood of individual groups within the nation; the economy; the income classes; the tragic tenacity of racism; what’s happening around the world; hopes and dreams; frustrations and difficulties.
This electoral season has been phenomenal on all those fronts. And what is abundantly clear is that a whole lot of people are pissed off. I’ve been sharing a quip for a few months now: if we Californians reinstate “Governor Moonbeam” as our chief executive, and if we simultaneously legalize marijuana, then make your moving plans. Please join me on the West Coast as we await the apocalypse.
That’s a joke, but the sentiment underlying it is not. Our country is having a serious meltdown. It actually might be a good idea for us to gather together around a fire, load up a very large bong, and sing Kumbaya for a while.
What concerns me most about the current angst is that it seems people are putting all the blame on the present. And, in my opinion, that is a huge mistake.
A lot of what is messed up today goes back to Reagan and deregulation. There also are the travesties of the first eight years of the current century…
I was on Amazon the other day, and I noticed their large advertisement for a book that will be released on November 9th. George W. Bush’s Decision Points.
I immediately questioned the title. Shouldn’t it be called Decidering Points?
As I thought about it, I realized there are many possibilities for the title of Dubya’s memoir…
How about Moments When Dick Cheney Told Me What to Do… ?
No? Okay then, here’s another option: How I Came to Support Halliburton While Hopin’ to Please Ol’ Pappy.
What do you mean you don’t like that one?
Too wordy, you say?
Alright then, how about My Delusion Continues.
Yeah, I agree, that might give him too much credit for introspection.
Of course, something extremely direct might be refreshing. Like… Check Out All These Ways I Fucked Up!
And here’s one that’s sort of obtuse: A Spine is a Terrible Thing to Waste.
(By which I’m speaking from the perspective of a librarian, not an anatomist.)
Update from my left ear: the news station I am listening to has projected Jerry Brown for governor.
Can you imagine spending $141 million in pursuit of a job and NOT getting it?
If tonight’s projections hold true tomorrow, then that’s what Meg Whitman did.
Everybody should be angry about that waste of too-much-money.
And if you think about it... and if you do so without partisan prejudice or any other ‘ism’s that might influence your perspective, you will realize that you cannot logically blame the obscene scenario of Whitman’s campaign on the Obama administration.
You just can’t.
Showing posts with label George W. Bush. Show all posts
Showing posts with label George W. Bush. Show all posts
Monday, October 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Scare Tactics
At the risk of offending you and/or causing you to worry, I will begin with a confession: I smoke.
I have smoked for more than quite a few years, and although I stopped for a while twice, the stopping didn’t take.
When I did stop, though, it wasn’t all that difficult, and I believe the ease with which I quit (however temporarily) was directly related to my strong desire to do so. I am eminently stubborn. I do what I do when I want to do it. That includes smoking, and that includes quitting.
I’ve been a little off-put (a “little?” – make that, A LOT) by all the recent legislation that puts us smokers in the realm of second-class citizenry. Yes, I know it’s bad. (How could I not know that?) But, banning smoking from outdoor areas of Los Angeles restaurants?
Imagine the scene:
“No, sir,” the West Hollywood waiter says, “I’m sorry. You can’t smoke out here. But, when you’ve paid for those five martinis, the valet will be ‘round with your car. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy inhaling the exhaust fumes from Sunset Boulevard.”
In my opinion, there are three things wrong with that picture. I defy you not to agree with me about two of them.
And recently, I also was dismayed to learn that my beloved New York City has nary a smoking section. Not in the whole city!
Seriously?
God, I must be a dirty, awful person. I don’t even know how I get out of bed in the morning!
Okay, so the latest is the plan for cigarette packaging. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. Beginning on some date in the not-too-distant future, a full third of cigarette packages will feature graphic photographs of the ugly truths: mouth cancer, chest incisions, tracheotomies. I’ve been thinking ahead, and my plan is to do one of two things – cover the photographs with duct tape or transfer the cigarettes into tamer packages that I’ll start squirreling away as the launch date approaches.
Seriously, I’m not carrying those photos around with me. I could just as easily tape a photograph of a bad car wreck onto my steering wheel…
So, yes, I’m one of those stubborn people who isn’t going to quit when the new packaging comes out.
And, yes, I’m not alone.
My knowing I’m not the only one was confirmed several weeks ago during the final segment of NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. The show’s host, Peter Sagal, posed a question to the three panelists – a question they would answer after the break. He asked (and I’m paraphrasing here): When the graphic cigarette packaging doesn’t get people to quit, what will they try next?
The panelists’ responses were fairly amusing, but not so amusing as to make me remember them... Besides, I was a little distracted in the moment. Because, just in that moment, I realized what would make me quit.
Bush and Cheney.
Seriously.
If the tobacco companies put photographs of either George W. Bush or Dick Cheney on cigarette packages, I would not buy them. Because the idea of paying money for a picture of either of those two bastards absolutely riles me.
I just couldn’t do it.
I just couldn’t.
And so, my non-smoking friends, if you’re worried about my habit and want to take action to put me on the road to recovery, write letters to the appropriate persons-in-charge. Suggest the Bush/Cheney packaging. It may not do the trick for other smokers, but I guarantee you, that’s the sure-fire way to get me to quit for good!
I have smoked for more than quite a few years, and although I stopped for a while twice, the stopping didn’t take.
When I did stop, though, it wasn’t all that difficult, and I believe the ease with which I quit (however temporarily) was directly related to my strong desire to do so. I am eminently stubborn. I do what I do when I want to do it. That includes smoking, and that includes quitting.
I’ve been a little off-put (a “little?” – make that, A LOT) by all the recent legislation that puts us smokers in the realm of second-class citizenry. Yes, I know it’s bad. (How could I not know that?) But, banning smoking from outdoor areas of Los Angeles restaurants?
Imagine the scene:
“No, sir,” the West Hollywood waiter says, “I’m sorry. You can’t smoke out here. But, when you’ve paid for those five martinis, the valet will be ‘round with your car. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy inhaling the exhaust fumes from Sunset Boulevard.”
In my opinion, there are three things wrong with that picture. I defy you not to agree with me about two of them.
And recently, I also was dismayed to learn that my beloved New York City has nary a smoking section. Not in the whole city!
Seriously?
God, I must be a dirty, awful person. I don’t even know how I get out of bed in the morning!
Okay, so the latest is the plan for cigarette packaging. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. Beginning on some date in the not-too-distant future, a full third of cigarette packages will feature graphic photographs of the ugly truths: mouth cancer, chest incisions, tracheotomies. I’ve been thinking ahead, and my plan is to do one of two things – cover the photographs with duct tape or transfer the cigarettes into tamer packages that I’ll start squirreling away as the launch date approaches.
Seriously, I’m not carrying those photos around with me. I could just as easily tape a photograph of a bad car wreck onto my steering wheel…
So, yes, I’m one of those stubborn people who isn’t going to quit when the new packaging comes out.
And, yes, I’m not alone.
My knowing I’m not the only one was confirmed several weeks ago during the final segment of NPR’s Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. The show’s host, Peter Sagal, posed a question to the three panelists – a question they would answer after the break. He asked (and I’m paraphrasing here): When the graphic cigarette packaging doesn’t get people to quit, what will they try next?
The panelists’ responses were fairly amusing, but not so amusing as to make me remember them... Besides, I was a little distracted in the moment. Because, just in that moment, I realized what would make me quit.
Bush and Cheney.
Seriously.
If the tobacco companies put photographs of either George W. Bush or Dick Cheney on cigarette packages, I would not buy them. Because the idea of paying money for a picture of either of those two bastards absolutely riles me.
I just couldn’t do it.
I just couldn’t.
And so, my non-smoking friends, if you’re worried about my habit and want to take action to put me on the road to recovery, write letters to the appropriate persons-in-charge. Suggest the Bush/Cheney packaging. It may not do the trick for other smokers, but I guarantee you, that’s the sure-fire way to get me to quit for good!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday Reruns: The Bully Pulpit
(original post-date: December 2, 2009)
When I hear or see the phrase, “the bully pulpit,” the wordsmith in me cannot help but do a word scramble. And the result of that is pitbull.
(But I don't also think of lipstick, a la Mizz Palin.)
The country I call home – the “good ol’ USA” – seems always to have had the best possible billing on the world’s bully pulpit, and while I question our authority and stellar positioning, I must confess that I am grateful for the passage of time…
It wasn’t even two years ago, I guess, when the news was all about water-boarding. I was listening to NPR one day, and the story included a sound byte from our then-President. I can’t claim to quote him verbatim, but his comment went something like this: “In our country,” our then-President said, “we do not torture people.”
I leapt from the couch.
I ran toward my stereo.
I spoke into the base of the sound system that was providing radio frequency.
“YOU ARE TORTURING ME NOW!” I screamed.
Because he was (simply by speaking). Because he did (simply by assuming such an important role). Because he could…
Every time that entitled son-of-a-bitch opened his mouth, I felt tortured.
Not so with Obama.
I appreciate the fact that the man thinks. I appreciate that he cares and is willing to take the time to explain. I appreciate that he has more “on his plate” than any predecessor in the Oval Office.
But, no matter my opinion of the person standing at the world’s premier bully pulpit, I remain confused. I will probably never understand international politics and the thought processes that allow it to unfold as it does. I will probably never understand why “we” think that sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan will get the job done.
And what is “the job,” anyway? It’s about al Qaeda, right? And the Taliban? I don’t know, but unless I’ve missed something, that group doesn’t exactly exist in ground-war circuits. That group is about belief systems. They are about psychology. And that’s a totally different kind of war.
According to what I know of the 9-11 attacks, these people want to die. The process takes them that much closer to their purpose.
So, have we asked our troops about their philosophies? Do they want to die? And if they do, do they know what they’re dying for?
It’s a shame that our country became so powerful so quickly. At first blush, we were the spoiled teenager. You know the one – who, on the same day, gets both a driver’s license and a brand new car. We’ve been speeding about quite cleverly since then, amassing riches (and more recently, debt). It seems, though, that we’ve yet to stand back and take stock of our own worthiness.
Our own worthiness… a broken public education system, marked by increasing illiteracy; hunger and homelessness on the rise; growing rates of unemployment; home foreclosures left and right; millions without affordable healthcare coverage; collectively dismal credit ratings reflecting lives outspent…
Who are we to show some other country how to behave? And, if Bin Laden and his band of merry men are really what we’re looking for, does it have to take 30,000 troops to bring them to their knees?
America – once the unrestricted adolescent – is now closer to thirtysomething.
Sure, we might have traded in that first car (a few times), and we may now be driving a hybrid, but… do we know where we're going?
On-star, are you with us?
When I hear or see the phrase, “the bully pulpit,” the wordsmith in me cannot help but do a word scramble. And the result of that is pitbull.
(But I don't also think of lipstick, a la Mizz Palin.)
The country I call home – the “good ol’ USA” – seems always to have had the best possible billing on the world’s bully pulpit, and while I question our authority and stellar positioning, I must confess that I am grateful for the passage of time…
It wasn’t even two years ago, I guess, when the news was all about water-boarding. I was listening to NPR one day, and the story included a sound byte from our then-President. I can’t claim to quote him verbatim, but his comment went something like this: “In our country,” our then-President said, “we do not torture people.”
I leapt from the couch.
I ran toward my stereo.
I spoke into the base of the sound system that was providing radio frequency.
“YOU ARE TORTURING ME NOW!” I screamed.
Because he was (simply by speaking). Because he did (simply by assuming such an important role). Because he could…
Every time that entitled son-of-a-bitch opened his mouth, I felt tortured.
Not so with Obama.
I appreciate the fact that the man thinks. I appreciate that he cares and is willing to take the time to explain. I appreciate that he has more “on his plate” than any predecessor in the Oval Office.
But, no matter my opinion of the person standing at the world’s premier bully pulpit, I remain confused. I will probably never understand international politics and the thought processes that allow it to unfold as it does. I will probably never understand why “we” think that sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan will get the job done.
And what is “the job,” anyway? It’s about al Qaeda, right? And the Taliban? I don’t know, but unless I’ve missed something, that group doesn’t exactly exist in ground-war circuits. That group is about belief systems. They are about psychology. And that’s a totally different kind of war.
According to what I know of the 9-11 attacks, these people want to die. The process takes them that much closer to their purpose.
So, have we asked our troops about their philosophies? Do they want to die? And if they do, do they know what they’re dying for?
It’s a shame that our country became so powerful so quickly. At first blush, we were the spoiled teenager. You know the one – who, on the same day, gets both a driver’s license and a brand new car. We’ve been speeding about quite cleverly since then, amassing riches (and more recently, debt). It seems, though, that we’ve yet to stand back and take stock of our own worthiness.
Our own worthiness… a broken public education system, marked by increasing illiteracy; hunger and homelessness on the rise; growing rates of unemployment; home foreclosures left and right; millions without affordable healthcare coverage; collectively dismal credit ratings reflecting lives outspent…
Who are we to show some other country how to behave? And, if Bin Laden and his band of merry men are really what we’re looking for, does it have to take 30,000 troops to bring them to their knees?
America – once the unrestricted adolescent – is now closer to thirtysomething.
Sure, we might have traded in that first car (a few times), and we may now be driving a hybrid, but… do we know where we're going?
On-star, are you with us?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Acting Out
For a few consecutive years, beginning in early 2002, my neighbors and I had a routine. It took place on the stoop in the courtyard of our apartment building. It involved Heinekens and raucous laughter. And it would go on and on, into the wee small hours. My then-boyfriend was part of the mix, and he’d occasionally add his guitar to the scene. So there would be strumming and… singing.
Often until two in the morning.
We didn’t care that we were loud. We were in our own world. And so, we only smiled and shrugged when we were scolded by those older, quieter neighbors whom we had woken. (Okay, we also said “sorry,” but doing so never prevented a repeat performance.)
It took me two or three years to step away from that self-involved behavior. It took me that long to realize how it had come on the heels of 9/11. It took me some perspective to believe that we were simply acting out.
I remember a thought that would occur to me during those years: I miss my country.
And by that, I meant that I missed the country I thought I knew.
… When I was in the first grade, we were let out of school early one day. And the mood was somber.
It was November 22, 1963.
I remember walking down the blacktop toward the parking lot. I remember embracing that sense of somberness, but not really knowing why. I remember hearing one third grader whisper to her peer: “Don’t tell the first graders,” she said. “They won’t understand.”
I resented condescension even before I knew the word, and so what I overheard that day will always stay with me. I’d also love to track down that third grader. I’m guessing she’s now 55.
So tell me, whoever you are at 55: how do you explain the Kennedy assassination? (From what I overheard that fateful day, you understood.)
… Last weekend, I took myself to the movies, but not because I’m a great date. I just felt like getting out, and I’d been intrigued to see Inside Job, the documentary about what led to the financial crisis of 2008.
So I took advantage of my local theatre’s still-reasonable matinee price and I forked over $6.50 for my ticket.
As I took in the film’s message, I can’t say that I was shocked. Rather, I was informed.
(And frankly, nothing shocks me anymore. I’ve done my “acting out,” thank you very much, and I’ve come to accept that we are all totally screwed.)
Watching the movie, though, I came to understand a bit more about the “derivatives” that NPR has talked about for the past year. And I saw how those bundled packages helped to create the mess that’s led to so many foreclosures. I also got a sense of how “credit default swaps” contributed to the meltdown.
As to what really brought on the meltdown? Well, it isn’t news that the groundwork was laid by Reagan, when he green-lighted deregulation. The first Bush kept it going, and Clinton was right there, too, cheering on the banks as they successfully lobbied against any suggestions for oversight. During those years, the game sort of worked. There were some minor financial crises, but we bounced back until…
It all began to really come apart after 2001, and here’s my theory: The banks were acting out. Located on Wall Street, where they lost their people and their towers, they just freaked. They didn’t know what hit them, but they realized their world was not the same. It would have to be every man for himself. And so, because it was their modus operandi to pursue the almighty dollar, they began to pursue it with a vengeance and with no regard for who might get hurt (or lose a job, or lose a home) in the process.
They didn’t care. They had watched colleagues leap to their deaths from fiery buildings, and they just didn’t care.
Acting out.
… Today, the same people who were there for the meltdown – and who let it happen – are still in charge of our government’s financial dealings. The Treasury Department and Obama’s circle of economic advisors are filled with guys (and a few women) who were once the “deciders” at such failures as Goldman Sachs and AIG. They were there when Bush II was our pitiable president, and they are still there. According to Inside Job, they’ve been kept on because it’s “too complicated.”
It’s too complicated, they say.
I feel like that first grader again, with the third grader whispering, “they won’t understand.”
Screw you, third grader!
I don’t believe it’s too complicated. It’s simply too inbred.
And until we start over with completely new leadership (something I hoped for, when I voted for Obama), we will continue to be treated like first graders.
I didn’t like it when I was six, and I don’t like it now.
Often until two in the morning.
We didn’t care that we were loud. We were in our own world. And so, we only smiled and shrugged when we were scolded by those older, quieter neighbors whom we had woken. (Okay, we also said “sorry,” but doing so never prevented a repeat performance.)
It took me two or three years to step away from that self-involved behavior. It took me that long to realize how it had come on the heels of 9/11. It took me some perspective to believe that we were simply acting out.
I remember a thought that would occur to me during those years: I miss my country.
And by that, I meant that I missed the country I thought I knew.
… When I was in the first grade, we were let out of school early one day. And the mood was somber.
It was November 22, 1963.
I remember walking down the blacktop toward the parking lot. I remember embracing that sense of somberness, but not really knowing why. I remember hearing one third grader whisper to her peer: “Don’t tell the first graders,” she said. “They won’t understand.”
I resented condescension even before I knew the word, and so what I overheard that day will always stay with me. I’d also love to track down that third grader. I’m guessing she’s now 55.
So tell me, whoever you are at 55: how do you explain the Kennedy assassination? (From what I overheard that fateful day, you understood.)
… Last weekend, I took myself to the movies, but not because I’m a great date. I just felt like getting out, and I’d been intrigued to see Inside Job, the documentary about what led to the financial crisis of 2008.
So I took advantage of my local theatre’s still-reasonable matinee price and I forked over $6.50 for my ticket.
As I took in the film’s message, I can’t say that I was shocked. Rather, I was informed.
(And frankly, nothing shocks me anymore. I’ve done my “acting out,” thank you very much, and I’ve come to accept that we are all totally screwed.)
Watching the movie, though, I came to understand a bit more about the “derivatives” that NPR has talked about for the past year. And I saw how those bundled packages helped to create the mess that’s led to so many foreclosures. I also got a sense of how “credit default swaps” contributed to the meltdown.
As to what really brought on the meltdown? Well, it isn’t news that the groundwork was laid by Reagan, when he green-lighted deregulation. The first Bush kept it going, and Clinton was right there, too, cheering on the banks as they successfully lobbied against any suggestions for oversight. During those years, the game sort of worked. There were some minor financial crises, but we bounced back until…
It all began to really come apart after 2001, and here’s my theory: The banks were acting out. Located on Wall Street, where they lost their people and their towers, they just freaked. They didn’t know what hit them, but they realized their world was not the same. It would have to be every man for himself. And so, because it was their modus operandi to pursue the almighty dollar, they began to pursue it with a vengeance and with no regard for who might get hurt (or lose a job, or lose a home) in the process.
They didn’t care. They had watched colleagues leap to their deaths from fiery buildings, and they just didn’t care.
Acting out.
… Today, the same people who were there for the meltdown – and who let it happen – are still in charge of our government’s financial dealings. The Treasury Department and Obama’s circle of economic advisors are filled with guys (and a few women) who were once the “deciders” at such failures as Goldman Sachs and AIG. They were there when Bush II was our pitiable president, and they are still there. According to Inside Job, they’ve been kept on because it’s “too complicated.”
It’s too complicated, they say.
I feel like that first grader again, with the third grader whispering, “they won’t understand.”
Screw you, third grader!
I don’t believe it’s too complicated. It’s simply too inbred.
And until we start over with completely new leadership (something I hoped for, when I voted for Obama), we will continue to be treated like first graders.
I didn’t like it when I was six, and I don’t like it now.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Morning After
In the interest of full disclosure, I will confess that I am not writing this on Wednesday morning. Rather, it’s Tuesday night, and I’ve got the TV on in the other room. I’m listening with my left ear as I type with both hands. My mind is taking things in as I put things out. Call me versatile.
As with most years, I have been intrigued by the campaigns and rallies that have led up to this day of voting. In college, I majored in Poli-Sci, and electoral politics always held my interest most. Electoral politics reflect a combination of so many things: the personalities of elected officials and those who would like to hold office; the mood of the nation; the mood of individual groups within the nation; the economy; the income classes; the tragic tenacity of racism; what’s happening around the world; hopes and dreams; frustrations and difficulties.
This electoral season has been phenomenal on all those fronts. And what is abundantly clear is that a whole lot of people are pissed off. I’ve been sharing a quip for a few months now: if we Californians reinstate “Governor Moonbeam” as our chief executive, and if we simultaneously legalize marijuana, then make your moving plans. Please join me on the West Coast as we await the apocalypse.
That’s a joke, but the sentiment underlying it is not. Our country is having a serious meltdown. It actually might be a good idea for us to gather together around a fire, load up a very large bong, and sing Kumbaya for a while.
What concerns me most about the current angst is that it seems people are putting all the blame on the present. And, in my opinion, that is a huge mistake.
A lot of what is messed up today goes back to Reagan and deregulation. There also are the travesties of the first eight years of the current century…
I was on Amazon the other day, and I noticed their large advertisement for a book that will be released on November 9th. George W. Bush’s Decision Points.
I immediately questioned the title. Shouldn’t it be called Decidering Points?
As I thought about it, I realized there are many possibilities for the title of Dubya’s memoir…
How about Moments When Dick Cheney Told Me What to Do… ?
No? Okay then, here’s another option: How I Came to Support Halliburton While Hopin’ to Please Ol’ Pappy.
What do you mean you don’t like that one?
Too wordy, you say?
Alright then, how about My Delusion Continues.
Yeah, I agree, that might give him too much credit for introspection.
Of course, something extremely direct might be refreshing. Like… Check Out All These Ways I Fucked Up!
And here’s one that’s sort of obtuse: A Spine is a Terrible Thing to Waste.
(By which I’m speaking from the perspective of a librarian, not an anatomist.)
Update from my left ear: the news station I am listening to has projected Jerry Brown for governor.
Can you imagine spending $141 million in pursuit of a job and NOT getting it?
If tonight’s projections hold true tomorrow, then that’s what Meg Whitman did.
Everybody should be angry about that waste of too-much-money.
And if you think about it... and if you do so without partisan prejudice or any other ‘ism’s that might influence your perspective, you will realize that you cannot logically blame the obscene scenario of Whitman’s campaign on the Obama administration.
You just can’t.
As with most years, I have been intrigued by the campaigns and rallies that have led up to this day of voting. In college, I majored in Poli-Sci, and electoral politics always held my interest most. Electoral politics reflect a combination of so many things: the personalities of elected officials and those who would like to hold office; the mood of the nation; the mood of individual groups within the nation; the economy; the income classes; the tragic tenacity of racism; what’s happening around the world; hopes and dreams; frustrations and difficulties.
This electoral season has been phenomenal on all those fronts. And what is abundantly clear is that a whole lot of people are pissed off. I’ve been sharing a quip for a few months now: if we Californians reinstate “Governor Moonbeam” as our chief executive, and if we simultaneously legalize marijuana, then make your moving plans. Please join me on the West Coast as we await the apocalypse.
That’s a joke, but the sentiment underlying it is not. Our country is having a serious meltdown. It actually might be a good idea for us to gather together around a fire, load up a very large bong, and sing Kumbaya for a while.
What concerns me most about the current angst is that it seems people are putting all the blame on the present. And, in my opinion, that is a huge mistake.
A lot of what is messed up today goes back to Reagan and deregulation. There also are the travesties of the first eight years of the current century…
I was on Amazon the other day, and I noticed their large advertisement for a book that will be released on November 9th. George W. Bush’s Decision Points.
I immediately questioned the title. Shouldn’t it be called Decidering Points?
As I thought about it, I realized there are many possibilities for the title of Dubya’s memoir…
How about Moments When Dick Cheney Told Me What to Do… ?
No? Okay then, here’s another option: How I Came to Support Halliburton While Hopin’ to Please Ol’ Pappy.
What do you mean you don’t like that one?
Too wordy, you say?
Alright then, how about My Delusion Continues.
Yeah, I agree, that might give him too much credit for introspection.
Of course, something extremely direct might be refreshing. Like… Check Out All These Ways I Fucked Up!
And here’s one that’s sort of obtuse: A Spine is a Terrible Thing to Waste.
(By which I’m speaking from the perspective of a librarian, not an anatomist.)
Update from my left ear: the news station I am listening to has projected Jerry Brown for governor.
Can you imagine spending $141 million in pursuit of a job and NOT getting it?
If tonight’s projections hold true tomorrow, then that’s what Meg Whitman did.
Everybody should be angry about that waste of too-much-money.
And if you think about it... and if you do so without partisan prejudice or any other ‘ism’s that might influence your perspective, you will realize that you cannot logically blame the obscene scenario of Whitman’s campaign on the Obama administration.
You just can’t.
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